“Can’t eat sweets, remember?”
My lips press into a thin line, thinking about all theamazing foods he can’t eat. I wonder if it would be easier if I had never tasted a chocolate chip cookie or a beignet or if he’s just that strong-minded that it doesn’t bother him. It will take every ounce of my will plus some prayers not to have a brownie that’s sitting in front of me.
We get to Greyson and Sutton’s house with a dozen bags and a shared mission, ready to cook, decorate, and celebrate Witley Suzanne’s homecoming. He unlocks the door, dumps the bags while I inflate balloons until my veins almost pop out of my neck.
I hand Matt the “Welcome Home Baby” banner to tape across the mantel. “Higher. No—now it’s crooked.”
“Dictator,” he mutters, but he fixes it and then tilts his head. “Better?”
“Perfect.” I balance on the couch arm to tie a ribbon and nearly fall. Of course, Matt catches me by the waist with an annoyed sigh that is ninety percent dedication.
“Feet on solid ground,” he commands, setting me down like I’m a piece of Waterford crystal. “I don’t need you spraining an ankle two days before media day.”
“Careful,” I tell him. “The way you fuss is cute.”
He scowls on purpose. “I do not fuss.”
“You fuss.”
“I coach.”
“Same thing.” I jump onto his back because I never learn. He groans like I weigh as much as a bull and reaches back to hook his hands under my knees without thinking, which makes something unreliable flutter in my throat. I kiss his neck on impulse—just a brush, a thank-you—and he goes still like I unplugged him.
“Butterfly,” he says, a warning that doesn’twant to be one.
“Sorry,” I say, not sorry at all. Not here. I know.
In the kitchen, we attack meal prep like a competition show. He chops; I stir. He seasons while I write out the food labels. I write “Cherry Surprise” and “Cheese Mountain” and “Soup for Sleep-Deprived Humans.” He snorts at the last one and tries to swap my neat all-caps for his blocky coach scrawl, writing “Pasta” under Cheese Mountain and “Potato Soup” under Sleep-Deprived.
“Your handwriting looks like it got tackled,” I observe.
“Function over form,” he says, bumping my hip with his. We move around each other like we’ve done this a hundred times, like kitchens live in our bones.
When the casseroles cool, we slide them into the fridge and freezer, neat rows of future comfort. We stand there shoulder to shoulder, doors open, admiring our creations.
“This is a ridiculous amount of pasta,” he says.
“You know the whole team will visit and Sutton will insist on feeding them,” I say.
Greyson and Sutton are Austin’s version of a prince and princess. And the Armadillos love them.
He considers it. “Fair.”
The house is quiet, and unused labels are scattered across the counter. I turn, leaning my hips against it. “Come here,” I say, and he does. The kiss is easy and sweet and somehow still wrecks me. His hand finds the small of my back; mine finds the side of his neck. When we part, we’re both smiling like idiots.
I tape a grid to the fridge—meals with dates and notes and hearts—and step back, satisfied.
He watches me, something tight and fond pulling at his mouth. “You weaponized a spreadsheet,” he says. “On a refrigerator.”
“I’m multi-talented.”
He sobers a little. “I’m worried about you.”
The sentence lands like a stone in a pond, ripples widening. “I’m fine,” I say, too fast.
“You were sick in Oklahoma City last week,” he says, counting on his fingers like he’s reviewing game film. “You were queasy in New Orleans. Today you went gray on me. That’s a pattern. I think we should get you checked out.”
The blood roars in my ears. The box in my chest rattles its nailed lid. I step sideways into humor because it’s my safest hallway.
